the tub, and at long last wiggled the key from the sole of my shoe. Brass, like I remembered. Thicker than a house key. Stamped on the front, three uneven numbers: 229. On the back: U.S. GOV'T, UNLAWFUL TO DUPLICATE.
An office in the Secret Service Building? A government vault? A safe-deposit box?
A knock at the front door startled me. As I sprang up, a thud vibrated the floor. Jamming the key back into the air pocket of my sneaker, I scrambled out into my bedroom.
A ginger-haired young man in his early twenties stood at an uncomfortable forward tilt, peering apologetically into my apartment, his fist still
raised from knocking. He wore a white shirt, almost the shade of his skin, and a red paisley bow tie. The front door lay flat on its side just inside the threshold. We regarded each other, startled. I looked like an idiot or a schizophrenic--muscle pants, gift-shop T-shirt, eyes glassy with fatigue.
"Uh, sorry. Mr. Horrigan?"
"Nick."
"I'm Alan Lambrose. One of Senator Caruthers's aides. The senator got into town late last night after the debate, and he'd like to thank you in person."
"Is that really a bow tie?"
"It is. It's sort of how I'm known. Senator's aide with a bow tie." He smiled brightly and fanned a hand down the hall. "I have a car waiting for you, if that's okay."
I walked into the living room, the Aztec pattern of the muscle pants flashing with my movement, and gestured around. "Not the best time."
"Is there some way we can help?"
"Sure. I'd like my door fixed."
"We'll get that taken care of. And we'll see that you're reimbursed for the damage."
"Look," I said, "I get it. There's fifteen minutes of fame to be had. Everyone's eager for me to have them, and to get a picture shaking my hand."
"Everyone?"
"Every presidential candidate."
Alan's pale lips firmed to suppress a smile, the first break in his wonkishness. "I won't lie to you,"
he said, "and pretend we're not pleased you didn't wait around for Bilton's call."
"How do you know about that? Did Wydell tell you?"
"I don't know Wydell, but I can tell you that it became Service scuttlebutt before you left the hospital."
That struck me as odd and made me wonder at the reach of Caruthers's influence. "I'd always thought the Service was about discretion," I said carefully.
"Times are different, I suppose," Alan said. "Everything's gone to shit and politics."
"Right," I said. "Well, please thank Senator Caruthers for the offer, but tell him I'll take a pass. I need to . . . you know, figure out what to do here about my place." I hoped I didn't sound as helpless as I felt.
"I didn't mean to upset you." Alan withdrew.
I tried shoving some of the stuffing back into the couch, growing increasingly frustrated. I wanted to restore something to its former shape, even a damn couch. But the more I fussed with it, the more the fabric tore and stretched, and after a while I gave up and sat, splay-legged and discouraged.
When I looked up, Alan was in the doorway again, sliding his cell phone back into his pocket. "The senator told me I was an asshole for playing the political angle. He said he has no interest in publicizing his meeting with you. He just wants to
meet you because he was such an admirer of your stepfather."
I considered this skeptically. But I remembered how Frank had always spoken about Caruthers. "Can I take a shower?"
"I'm sorry, the senator's on a bit of a schedule today."
He turned away obligingly while I changed. I kept the IS? L.A. shirt but switched out the muscle pants for jeans.
"Watch your step there." He held the crime - scene tape up for me as I ducked through the doorway, a boxer entering a ring.
I followed him down the hall, on my way to meet the next president of the United States.
Waiting for the elevator, Alan raised a hand, touched my shoulder. "You mind my asking why you're so reluctant to be noticed?"
"Yes," I said, my thoughts yanked back seventeen years.
I minded quite a bit.
Chapter 8
The open back
An office in the Secret Service Building? A government vault? A safe-deposit box?
A knock at the front door startled me. As I sprang up, a thud vibrated the floor. Jamming the key back into the air pocket of my sneaker, I scrambled out into my bedroom.
A ginger-haired young man in his early twenties stood at an uncomfortable forward tilt, peering apologetically into my apartment, his fist still
raised from knocking. He wore a white shirt, almost the shade of his skin, and a red paisley bow tie. The front door lay flat on its side just inside the threshold. We regarded each other, startled. I looked like an idiot or a schizophrenic--muscle pants, gift-shop T-shirt, eyes glassy with fatigue.
"Uh, sorry. Mr. Horrigan?"
"Nick."
"I'm Alan Lambrose. One of Senator Caruthers's aides. The senator got into town late last night after the debate, and he'd like to thank you in person."
"Is that really a bow tie?"
"It is. It's sort of how I'm known. Senator's aide with a bow tie." He smiled brightly and fanned a hand down the hall. "I have a car waiting for you, if that's okay."
I walked into the living room, the Aztec pattern of the muscle pants flashing with my movement, and gestured around. "Not the best time."
"Is there some way we can help?"
"Sure. I'd like my door fixed."
"We'll get that taken care of. And we'll see that you're reimbursed for the damage."
"Look," I said, "I get it. There's fifteen minutes of fame to be had. Everyone's eager for me to have them, and to get a picture shaking my hand."
"Everyone?"
"Every presidential candidate."
Alan's pale lips firmed to suppress a smile, the first break in his wonkishness. "I won't lie to you,"
he said, "and pretend we're not pleased you didn't wait around for Bilton's call."
"How do you know about that? Did Wydell tell you?"
"I don't know Wydell, but I can tell you that it became Service scuttlebutt before you left the hospital."
That struck me as odd and made me wonder at the reach of Caruthers's influence. "I'd always thought the Service was about discretion," I said carefully.
"Times are different, I suppose," Alan said. "Everything's gone to shit and politics."
"Right," I said. "Well, please thank Senator Caruthers for the offer, but tell him I'll take a pass. I need to . . . you know, figure out what to do here about my place." I hoped I didn't sound as helpless as I felt.
"I didn't mean to upset you." Alan withdrew.
I tried shoving some of the stuffing back into the couch, growing increasingly frustrated. I wanted to restore something to its former shape, even a damn couch. But the more I fussed with it, the more the fabric tore and stretched, and after a while I gave up and sat, splay-legged and discouraged.
When I looked up, Alan was in the doorway again, sliding his cell phone back into his pocket. "The senator told me I was an asshole for playing the political angle. He said he has no interest in publicizing his meeting with you. He just wants to
meet you because he was such an admirer of your stepfather."
I considered this skeptically. But I remembered how Frank had always spoken about Caruthers. "Can I take a shower?"
"I'm sorry, the senator's on a bit of a schedule today."
He turned away obligingly while I changed. I kept the IS? L.A. shirt but switched out the muscle pants for jeans.
"Watch your step there." He held the crime - scene tape up for me as I ducked through the doorway, a boxer entering a ring.
I followed him down the hall, on my way to meet the next president of the United States.
Waiting for the elevator, Alan raised a hand, touched my shoulder. "You mind my asking why you're so reluctant to be noticed?"
"Yes," I said, my thoughts yanked back seventeen years.
I minded quite a bit.
Chapter 8
The open back
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